


Don't Look Behind You (It's A Dangerous Sport)

by sabriel75



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Blindness, Fae & Fairies, Hand Jobs, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Other, Permanent Injury, Teen Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-18
Updated: 2012-11-18
Packaged: 2017-11-19 00:23:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/566965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sabriel75/pseuds/sabriel75
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Stiles learns making deals with fairies is like dancing with the devil. You never know how much of your soul is up for grabs or when they're going to come for it. </i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Look Behind You (It's A Dangerous Sport)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [morganoconner](https://archiveofourown.org/users/morganoconner/gifts).



> **Author's Notes:**  
>  [1] My character biases show in this story, forgive them. Do hope you enjoy it, despite them. And that you can find something redeemable in this mishmash of teen angst, sad humor attempts and goofy love story.  
> [2] Also, please do not judge my medical knowledge. While I have been concussed to where my brain swelled so much that I could not remember my name or birthday; I am merely using google-fu research and my own experiences to piece together a believable cause for blindness. If all else is fail, just remember the fairies did it.  
> [3] No offense is meant to those with vision loss. I’ve done everything in my limited knowledge to make Stiles real and human and capable after finding out he will permanently be without his eyesight.

_“If there be light, then there is darkness; if cold, heat; if height, depth; if solid, fluid; if hard, soft; if rough, smooth; if calm, tempest; if prosperity, adversity; if life, death.” ― Pythagoras_

 

**THE LIGHTS GO OUT**

Fate’s a bitch and everyone knows it.

Life though, Stiles’ in particular, just goes beyond that sentiment, settling somewhere in this mass of pain, guilt, amazement, utter ridiculousness and too many open-ended why’s that cannot be explained.

The concept – that the unknown exists – is an undervalued, unexplored idea that Stiles spends many nights researching nor does it faze him in the very least nowadays.

Okay. So the potential of dying a slow, agonizing painful death in his quest for truth and answers frequently cuts into happy fun Stiles’ time, but he mostly manages to push that aside… in favor of… well living. 

Because what’s more fun than having nearly every _Supernatural_ episode and sci-fi/fantasy book he read or show he watched as a child creep into his reality to test his theories.

For once, he cannot lie, as in the words coming out of his mouth are not false. He rather enjoys the challenge and that his life falls into the truly unusually bizarre realm of “this can’t be happening.”

Except when it sucks. Like now; having made first line on the Lacrosse Team, riding the high of being a senior, only to be felled by Jackson again – for the fourth time today.

Practicing Lacrosse with werewolves sucks.

Stiles should be so much better at it, but he’s been up late for three nights in a row, researching fairies. Goddamned fairies who want to drain the magic of the packs’ territories and do not sympathize with mere mortals and the ails with which the loss of magic might cause them. And Lydia looks too pale again, drawn and wordless in ways she should never be around her friends, even if she giggles a bit hysterically at his constant use of Old English speech.

And Peter gets ahead of himself and presumes he has the right to be a know-it-all.

So not his position in the pack ever! Stiles claimed that role a long time ago, deserves it and unreservedly intends to master his domain any way he can. Or not. He’s not dueling with Peter any time soon even if his sass puts Stiles in situation after awkward situation with its off-colored culpability and emotional scarring that leaves fractured pieces of each pack left in his wake.

Stiles will not do that to his friends. Abandon them or make things worse.

But Derek needs to do something about Peter, after they kick some fairy butt, which takes more than the “tooth and claw” tactic that usually works so favorably for Derek.

He’ll get on those plans just as soon as he’s exterminated the fairy problem, and the pounding in his head that won’t go away.

Does it usually take this long to bounce back from a tackle?

Jackson peering down at him doesn’t help. He looks stunned and how he would in a Polaroid, something Stiles did for a class, you know, not in mockery but for science.

So Stiles laughed his ass off at the golden circles the werewolves’ eyes give off in photos and the weird light tricks he managed that impressed his photography teacher and landed him a brilliantly red A+ at the top the final project titled, _Hidden Lights in the Forest_.

The packs had not been amused, but not everyone can pull off this kind of irony.

Which is why Stiles is not surprised there is a halo around Jackson’s head,

And he’s reasoning out the logical explanation. He really is. Something about Polaroids, but his mind settles on heaven and hell and angels of death; and there’s no way in hell Stiles has gone to heaven.

If he had, in his heaven, Jackson doesn’t exist.

So obviously, he’s gone to hell.

And that’s just wrong.

Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.

He says so, right to Jackson’s face, lord of the underworld be damned.

Three times. Emphatically. Before Jackson begins to glow and blur and generally fade into a bright light.

“Oh my god. I am a saint, I tell you. A saint. There’s no way in hell, I’m going with you Jackson, evil devil that you are, trying to steal my soul.”

Maybe he rants a bit longer, until the light turns to darkness. And he knows it. Jackson’s ushering him into eternal damnation.

Stiles knows for certain now, because suddenly the voices of a thousand demons have joined Jackson’s totally unnecessary remarks in regards to Stiles’ intelligence and he can’t cover his ears fast enough.

His head hurts too.

Wow! His head might actually explode. Yeah. Like when they tested microwave theories on _Mythbusters_ , superheating water and watching it explode once it interacted with other cooler matter.

Somehow Stiles thinks he probably isn’t cool or hot enough to hang out with the lacrosse field grass, even if it feels so cool and wonderful against his heated skin.

“I matter. Totally. Dude – Grass! You’ve got to let me love you because I am so hot right now and Jackson’ll carry me off into the pit of hell if you don’t.”

The back of Stiles’ neck heats faster than a furnace during a blizzard now that he’s focused on living and not dying; and Stiles tries burrowing into the soft, cold ground, begging it to relieve him of the white, starburst flashes burning his retinas, but Jackson is back, cradling his head, telling him to hold still and muttering, “wrong homonym, dumbass.”

And about fifty more buzzing voices echo him.

Well, that’s just not fair. Jackson, douchebag, Whittemore’s telling him what to do and correcting Stiles’ grammar, scientific grammar, to add insult to injury.

“Oh for the love of freaking baby Jesus, shut up Jackson. I’m not going with you. So take your minions and your pretty face back to whatever hellhole you came from.”

“Stiles?”

It’s Scott, except he must be calling from the other side and Stiles laughs, a bit hysterical, at his pun, and wonders if he can even form words now that he’s dead or dying or caught in some sort of soulful introspection limbo. Well minus the introspection and mostly soulful, because the low groan he makes definitely was in tune with the grass roots, reedy and wispy.

“Oh god, I’m gonna die. I’m using alliterative devices to explain myself to myself in my head – Oh my god, Scott. Dude, you have to save me from myself!”

There’s more chattering and really do devils talk this much?

And his dad accuses him of babbling and all Stiles can think is, oh holy god thank you his dad will take care of things, until a sharp blast of red smears through the dark and everything comes back in Technicolor focus.

Stiles remembers.

Yes. This is how it’s supposed to be. This is how he sees life – in vivid color and everyone’s hovering above him and talking and he tries to speak but can’t.

Creepy flashes of white slowly crowd the color, annihilating one at a time from his field of vision and he wonders if this is it. This is what going towards the light is like.

He’s finally reached the final destination.

And then the lights go out completely.

Fade to black.

And Stiles’ last thought is he’s always lived in the grey so why the hell are his last moments on earth bookended in black and white. 

 

_“The story is not a pretty one. There is violence in it. And cruelty. But stories that are not pretty have a certain value, too, I suppose. Everything, as you well know (having lived in this world long enough to have figured out a thing or two for yourself), cannot always be sweetness and light.” ― Kate DiCamillo_

 

**SURPRISE FLASHBACKS AND EAVESDROPPING IN THE HOSPITAL... AGAIN**

As the knife cuts through the alpha’s throat, the red of his eyes constrict into a blank blueness. His prone, stone-solid form albeit alive falls atop Stiles.

There’s no escape from the blast that comes seconds later.

Stiles and the wolf man fly through the air, shards of glass slicing skin and fur, projectiles on separate flights now the force of the blast controls their movements. Although, feral red eyes meet his mid-flight and the healing powers of the supernatural catch up with Stiles’ best laid plans.

“Oh damn,” Stiles yells, twisting midair to keep claws from gutting him.

Skin and blood ribbons along with strips off the back of his red hoodie and Stiles figures now or never and tries out his so-called spark, believing in the protection spell he sends pumping through his veins, to follow his blood freely flowing over the alpha’s claws, his hands and wrists.

This war has gone on long enough.

A quick glance towards Derek, Scott and Isaac, seeing them stand tall over their alpha enemies, lets Stiles relax and he huddles in on himself, bracing for impact and more alpha carnage.

As in carnage, happening to him and not something he can avoid or cause himself, because he’s done for and isn’t quite sure anyone’s noticed – the most assuredly _not_ werewolf and oh so human male and hell yeah, genius mastermind of this grand showdown.

He is about to go splat on the cemented driveway.

The inevitability of his situation hits Stiles around the same time three low-timbred but commanding howls send the remaining alpha (yeah the one Stiles was aiming to take out on his own) running. None of them are in time to keep Stiles’ head from bouncing off the pavement, effectively punching his lights out.

Stiles watches this scene, on repeat, three times before disinfectant wafts under his nose and sends him into a fit of choked sputters. He barely moves or makes a sound.

A tube down your throat incapacitates the best of talkers, and Stiles, champion of all vomit-speak, unfortunately knows this better than anybody.

The sense of déjà vu is unwelcome, the tears streaking his cheeks hardly touching upon the guilt and pain of this immediate present. It’s the past that continues to haunt Stiles.

He wants to wipe it away and shake himself, shake off the tightness in his chest and shoulders, but realizes his entire body’s immobile, strapped to a board and the panic sets in… he feels too much on waking from this lucid dream he continues to have.

Of course, his very own time loop isn’t cool or anything resembling a good time and actually is more a recurring nightmare without a panic button or off switch or remote control these mind sports usually provide. 

Stiles must be unique in every way, rare as these dreams are; he has had an episode nearly every night since the alphas were defeated. And every single time, his subconscious refuses to give him control despite the whole lucid portion of the night’s festivities and instead plays judge and jury to Stiles’ very human failings of that night and holds him hostage, mentally, so Stiles gets to be witness to it in the sanctity of his own room.

He hates dreaming.

Then again, the tribunal trinity of Stiles, subconscious and ego has nothing on his dad. His dad, who on that night watched his son wheeled in unconscious, torn, shredded and concussed so badly it took three hours for the ER to make the call, to verify that Stiles indeed would awaken and be okay.

Stiles has no words for the agony, guilt and terror he felt seeing his father’s face on waking up. He was certain he had sent his father over the edge, that he’d wake up after the first initial time to find the Sheriff had had a heart attack or worse, been bitten by a wild animal.

Everyone else stood around angrily and each private moment they got with Stiles, they argued for why he should just tell his father already.

Derek, surprisingly enough, was the one who folded. He told Stiles’ dad everything in a fit of consciousness. Which who would’ve believed?

Except, yeah, Stiles would, does, but it doesn’t mean he was happy about it.

Stiles might hate Derek a little bit for it actually or a lot. They don’t talk about it or to each other much.

Scott claims Stiles, but since that night, no one questions his loyalty to either pack. He’s Stiles, the boy who runs with wolves and they just expect him to be there at all the pack meetings and Stiles goes because they’re his friends and he’d do anything for them.

Dread settles low in Stiles’ stomach when he recognizes the voices through the observation glass and the arguments bandied between them.

They’re too familiar. Too much like last time and his dad, he really doesn’t need this shit right now.

How he knows they’re outside his hospital room makes no sense or how he’s certain what the room looks like since his entire head is swathed in gauze and he’s anchored so tightly to the bed, any effort to move is not possible. He cannot tilt his ear toward them to better hear and yet all the same, as he desperately yearns to hear what they’re saying, their conversation as if a radio frequency gets louder and Stiles can hear everything.

Scott argues for Derek to give Stiles the bite.

“No. It could kill him.”

“He could die anyway!”

“Scott, he isn’t dying. Quit scaring the Sheriff.”

“They had to drill a hole in my son’s head to drain off excess bleeding. In. His. Brain.”

And his dad’s voice cracks, in anger and fear. Both come through in his tone when he asks, “Be honest, Derek, what’s going to happen to him?”

“Listen to the doctors. It might not be permanent.”

“You’re taking a huge risk.”

Scott sounds furious and Stiles wants to interrupt them all and tell them he’s okay but he’s forgotten how to talk. His tongue won’t even waggle the tiniest of bits around the plastic tube.

“He took the risk, Scott. Quit blaming anyone but Stiles. How many times can my son be thrown into walls, trees or whatever else happens out there before it was going to catch up with him? He’s lucky nothing’s been damaged permanently before now.”

“But Sheriff, we were just practicing. Practicing Lacrosse. He really didn’t do anything this time.”

“Stiles wouldn’t want it,” Derek interrupts, knowing Scott is about to go off again.

“Is that true, Scott? Has Stiles even spoken about wanting the bite in the event he might… ?”

Stiles hears his dad taper off without saying the words and he’s so glad for it, because hearing his dad say anything about Stiles possibly being gone from this world, for good, sends spikes of pain shooting up his spine into his head.

His head starts to throb but Stiles doesn’t want to miss any of this conversation. He still wants to call out. They should be asking him what he wants.

And his answer is no. No, he doesn’t want the bite. He’s fine just as he is. Stiles Stilinski, Sheriff’s son and all around fix-it guy for werewolves.

He doesn’t need the bite to be whole again. He fixes his own messes.

_Oh damn._

Scott stomps off in a huff, promising to bring back coffee for the Sheriff once he calms down, but Derek stays.

_Abort. Abort. Scott do not leave my dad alone with Derek while I am unconscious again._

No one ever listens to Stiles.

“So what crossfire did my son get caught in this time, Derek? Any good reasons why my son is lying in a hospital bed _unconscious_ again?”

“Scott’s telling the truth. They were just practicing Lacrosse. I’ve no idea what happened.”

“Why does Scott insist on you taking blame for this then and why you? Why wouldn’t Scott be the one to bite Stiles if need be?”

“He’s young, so is Stiles. They. They make a good team but Stiles… he could make it on his own. Scott, not so much. It pisses him off.”

Derek goes quiet, and his Dad doesn’t care that the silence stretches into the awkward, but Stiles’ fingers twitch with the ache to interrupt them. To keep Derek from speaking more, from filling the void with shared opinions that he’d rather not give and that Stiles would rather not hear or have his dad hear.

“He’s not alpha material for Stiles. He’d never be able to get Stiles to submit to him.”

“Derek, my son does not follow anyone’s orders if he thinks they’re idiotic, wrong or not aligned with his own plans of action.”

Two barks of laughter, from both his dad and Derek, make Stiles bristle madly. His dad is not allowed to bond with Derek over him.

_Uh NO._

No. Emphatically no.

It makes him more insane than the thought of Jackson being caretaker of the dead.

His heart monitor begins to drown out their voices and he breathes in, breathes out and tempers his heartbeat enough that the beeping goes back to the monotone normalcy from before.

Obviously, he’s missed something, because, is Derek complimenting him?

“And he doesn’t mean to usurp our alpha roles, he just does. They come to him – Lydia, Erica, Jackson even… all of the new betas – and ask for help and he can’t say no. He teaches them and helps in ways Scott and I should. And he makes things better, manages things better and always has a plan. His brain. Just.”

Derek pauses again, awkward with his silence ( _and Derek really should patent them, these awkward silences he’s got down to a science_ ) and Stiles wants to wiggle his whole body; it jerks in muscle memory response despite Stiles’ incapacity. His entire body one huge nervous tic that screams in agony over being still and not from pain like it probably should.

“FrankIy sir, I don’t know how he makes it through the day without pissing off more people,” Derek says finally, deadpan and wondering.

Stiles’ dad laughs and laughs until he wheezes.

“He’s good at that – I know. He cares for people and bends them to his will with his conviction and good humor.”

“Good humor,” Derek snorts. “That’s one way of explaining it.”

“It’s my fault, of course, that he is. That he’s so good at it. Between his mother and I though, truth is, he never stood a chance at being anything else.”

“Yeah. Well it’s going to get him killed.”

Scott’s timing, impeccable as usual, pisses off Derek.

Stiles can hear the anger in Derek’s voice when he snaps back, “He does everything for you. Have some faith in him. He deserves it. And if you can’t, out of respect for the Sheriff, keep your bad thoughts to yourself.”

They’re playing the blame game again and Stiles wishes they could get along. Not for the first time in recent weeks and he hates how they always find a way to bring him up, to make him the center of their charged exchanges.

Neither Derek or Scott hold back much with each other since lines have been drawn and they’re both alphas of packs not fully bonded. Each of them taking on betas left behind, remainders of the alpha pack’s violence. 

Humans turned and used as playthings and pets, so badly abused, that Derek would’ve never been able to help all of them without Isaac and Scott’s help. 

“Scott, where’s my coffee?” Stiles’ dad redirects Scott from his escalating rage enough that he offers an apology.

“Sorry Sheriff. I forgot.”

“I’ll get it,” Derek offers. “You two stay here. Stiles is trying to wiggle out of his cocoon in there. If he wakes up, it’s not my face he’ll want to see.”

The gauze is suffocating him. Stiles only notices when the throbbing in his head clouds all his efforts to eavesdrop. He can’t breathe.

_Oh God, I’m gonna die._

Stiles doesn’t want to die. Derek finally said nice things about him. Not to his face but hey, his dad is as good as it gets. He told Scott to have faith in him too.

Two for two. His dad and his best friend.

_Oh my God, Derek cares for me._

Now more monitors than just his heart one goes off loudly. Stiles, for all his experience with medical equipment cannot sort which ones are which or calm himself enough to keep them from sounding the alarm. His rapid breaths, shallow, aren’t pulling in enough oxygen anyway. He needs a nurse intervention.

No words come now either; the struggle to work his mouth futile when breathing requires all his energy. Stiles fades away, cloaked in eerie unwanted darkness but smiling his dopiest of smiles and not because of the morphine running willy-nilly through his body.

 

_“In the light, we read the inventions of others; in the darkness we invent our own stories.” ― Alberto Manguel_

 

**FIRST TWO WEEKS OF RECOVERY SUCKS**

Because nothing about Lydia is subtle or quiet; she yells from the bottom of the stairs and demands he get down there right this instance.

Stiles huffs into his pillow, naked but for threadbare boxers and decidedly ignores Lydia’s peals of laughter when his dad makes disparaging remarks about her manners and asks why she cannot be more like Allison who waits on the couch, patiently. He also ignores the thumping on the staircase wall, his dad’s precise raps joining Lydia’s imperial ones, when she calls up again, adding, “Stiles needs the practice because a toddler could get dressed blindfolded.”

“Stiles get your ass down here now,” and his dad sounds strained, as if he would’ve tacked on _before I strangle your friend_ if he and Stiles were the only ones within earshot of each other.

Cleary his dad could use lessons in good breeding too. His tone is a dead giveaway, not hiding any of the irritation he’s feeling towards Lydia and he used the word ass and Stiles in the same sentence in front of her. Stiles’ ass should not be offered up any way, in any form, even in passing tones of judgment around Lydia. She might get all the wrong sort of ideas and then Jackson will wail on Stiles again.

And Stiles cannot afford that.

He doesn’t blame Jackson at all for the blindness, but the werewolf did add yet another concussion to the long list of concussed moments in Stiles’ high school career and he’s feeling rather fragile still.

The neurologist keeps saying his sight’ll come back with the blink of an eye. That Stiles needs to be patient and rest and just let time heal things. That – that’s how these things work, something in Stiles says differently.

Patience is not something Stiles does. Never has. Never will. And even now, he holds out little hope after two weeks gone by that he’ll see his dad’s weary profile, sitting in the dining room or the piles of folders and papers stacked on the table for sorting and meant to shed light on this case or that.

The worst of these thoughts don’t change who Stiles is or his suspicions on why he isn't able to see.

When Stiles realizes the outcome of anything, a game, an experiment or a research problem; he knows the only way to advance is forward and with forward thinking. And his life’s been in danger too many times now for him not to know, you don’t look back when you’re running for your life.

This right now feels a little like that.

Especially when he applies those Stiles principles to the facts and they don’t really add up in favor of him seeing anything but this blinding darkness ever again.

He catches on to things, bounces back from injuries too quickly for his eyesight to still be gone after this length of time and while he might hate how quickly he resigns himself to this new lifestyle, he’ll deal like he does with everything else.

He keeps going.

Stiles is ready when Lydia calls him again, accusing him of being the biggest diva she’s ever had to dealt with, which Stiles thinks is unfair and calls her on it.

“You mean other than yourself, right?”

“Sure. Whatever, Stiles,” she says, pointing a finger into his chest. “Your shirt’s on backwards but you can’t really tell. Those baseball T’s look the same either way and have no tags. We’ll figure out something to help you with those.”

Allison gives him a soft hello and asks, “Are you ready?” before taking him by the hand and leading him out to his jeep.

She barely has to hold onto him nowadays. They’ve been practicing this exercise from day one.

Members of both packs have come by with gifts and dinners. All things Stiles can smell but cannot see and remembers vividly by picturing them in his head.

Even Derek and Scott stopped by to see him and wish him well. Their guilt so palpable that everything about their visits were awkward and they haven’t been back since.

Stiles is glad they’re keeping their distance. He wants to take his time working his way back into pack mentality and dealing with Scott and Derek’s immature feuding.

However, somehow Lydia and Allison have wormed their way into his heart and taken a bit of his soul after he bared it for them these first two weeks home blind, recovering and raw.

They did not ask him how he was doing and instead brought their game plans. Lydia organized his closet, clothes and drawers for easy access. Allison worked with him on navigating his house and outside, around the neighborhood and using a stick in public places.

They never let him sit idle or think too long on his condition, only allow him to celebrate the successes he has achieved over this short time.

They have even bonded over stories of first kisses that only come up because Lydia demanded to know how Stiles already could read Braille.

He confesses to having the biggest crush on the boy who was blind when he was transferred into their eighth grade class. Lydia doesn’t remember him, of course, but Stiles explains how he sort of obsessed a bit over everything having to do with the boy for weeks before he got up the nerve to approach him, even going so far as to embossing Braille onto paper since the professional embossers cost way too much for him to buy and he wanted to be able to pass notes with the boy.

Allison laughs at that and wants to know how Stiles ever had any time for anyone else with Scott hanging around.

Stiles shrugs. He loves Allison and all but her relationship with Scott goes beyond anything he can understand. Lydia thinks so too. They avoid talking about Scott except in vague third person terminology and only when absolutely necessary.

So yeah, Stiles maybe kissed the boy a lot in the bathrooms at school since apparently he had had no issues with taking advantage of his disability and always convinced the teacher that Stiles needed to come with him, help him navigate the hallways.

Lydia cannot believe his deviousness and is obviously impressed. Allison wonders what happened to the boy.

They all three startle when the Sheriff answers, “He moved away and Stiles pined for a year until he went back to pining after you Lydia.”

None of them, his dad nor Allison or Lydia act as if Stiles’ fluid sexuality is something of a surprise and while Stiles likes to think he’s more of a mystery, he’s beginning to like that they know him so well already. That they’ve taken the time and effort to know _know_ him as a person and as Stiles, not just a pack mate who helps out and is brilliant at research.

Stiles hadn’t realized he needed that until they came along determined to be those kind of friends. And they are his friends now, his best of friends, even though he will always love Scott most as a friend who he has had the longest.

And it is the only reason, when Lydia smacks him on the arm and says, “You ready to up your game,” as if two weeks is enough time for him to get his bearings and be fine with everything that he doesn’t smack her back.

Or resents that she expects him to be ready and aware and work hard so much so that only after two weeks, he’s moving onto the next stage of their “training.”

“Ballet? Really?”

Stiles is not so thrilled by their training as they are, but he relaxes into the program especially after three days and he’s managed walking around on his own, without bruising the hell out of his shins.

“How can dancing make such a difference?” He wonders aloud, not expecting an answer but should’ve known with Lydia around that he would get one.

“Ballet helps your posture and core in ways nothing else does. You need poise to walk blind Stiles. Also, it’s only practice for what comes next week.”

“What? Huh?” Stiles jumps high and twirls three times rapidly before landing, gracefully, feet in perfect positioning.

Allison claps and shouts, “Bravo. Bravo.”

Lydia’s praise is not as blatant. “That’ll do. He’s definitely ready.”

“I think so too,” and Stiles does a full body flail, negating all the gracefulness he just exhibited when Chris Argent agrees from the studio doorway.

 

_It's when the lights go out and you feel something behind you, you hear it, you feel its breath against your ear, but when you turn around, there's nothing there...” ― Stephen King_

 

**TRAINING WITH WEREWOLVES AND BADASS FEMALES DO NOTHING FOR STILES' SELF-ESTEEM**

Three betas surround Stiles, barely making any sound even though they’re bulky and on all fours.

 _Focus Stiles_.

Focus comes too late. He curses loudly when the fourth beta, he didn’t hear, drops him like a dog burying a bone.

“Sorry. Sorry Stiles. I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he says when Stiles gets up, wincing and shaking off the ache in his arms.

“It’s okay man. I’m fine,” Stiles says, quickly moving back into position. “It’s my fault for not hearing you.”

The other three start attacking, almost too fast for Stiles to gain his feet but he’s had two weeks practice figuring out their moves and manages to put down two before he goes down again.

“Good,” Christopher James, CJ to Stiles and his gang of mangy betas since there’s already a Chris dominating this territory, calls out.

Chris Argent recruits the best and CJ, blind in one eye and a huge, hulk of a man, is more than capable of taking the four werewolves growling for more. They just want to play but Stiles needs the break and CJ sees it.

“Go on pups. Go chase your tails somewhere else,” he says, shooing them away and letting Stiles keep his dignity – he’s about to pass out from exhaustion.

Stiles flops to the ground before he’s plucked up and hauled over CJ’s shoulder. “C’mon wily wizard boy. You’ll get stiff laying on the ground there.”

“Plus Lydia needs you to try out her new magical weapons. Better loosen up because that woman will eat you alive if you mess up today. She’s on a roll.”

CJ carries him to the showers, and Stiles mutters, “Thanks,” before heading to his locker to grab his things.

“You did good. A few more weeks and you’ll perfect that move.” CJ follows him, his Brazilian accent lulling Stiles as he prepares to shower.

“You going to follow me in,” Stiles asks cheekily when CJ doesn’t back off even when he starts to strip.

“Maybe. You look like you might keel over any moment. You sure you’re all right?”

Stiles jumps up and down, quick and fluid, before he answers, “Yeah. I’m good. No worries.”

“Okay. I’m trusting you to yell out if that changes when you get blasted with the hot water and fall on your ass.”

“That happened once. ONCE!” Stiles whines, “You’re not ever going to let that go, are you?”

“Not when you managed to concuss yourself _again_ in the showers on my watch. I thought Lydia was going to use me as her own personal chew toy for weeks after.”

“M’not my fault. Werewolves will mess you up man,” Stiles says sluggish, enjoying the hot spray on his tense back muscles.

“Well you best stay conscious until you get to the couch, you hear me, Stiles,” CJ barks.

“Yeah man. I’m hearing you loud and clear.”

“By the way, not to kick you in the balls when you’re naked and can’t kick me back, but Allison won the bet.”

“Dammit CJ,” and with that CJ leaves a very much, wide-awake Stiles alone to finish out his shower.

Stiles stomps into the kitchen where Allison’s making sandwiches. He wrinkles his nose at the bologna and gets out the curry chicken salad before lighting into her. “How could you? You know what this means, now that you’ve managed the entire Capoeiro routine before me. What’d’you do? Practice in your sleep?

He goes on the entire time he puts the chicken on his bread, all six pieces and only shuts up after taking a huge bite and chomping noisily in Allison’s ear.

She swats at him, not landing any hits because she’s the nice one and asks, “Are you done?”

“No,” Stiles petulantly answers, but he takes another bite and is too tired to continue his rant.

“Maybe I was tired of being one-upped by you. You’re freaking brilliant at everything and I cannot believe no one has noticed before now. Geesh! It’s like living with freaking Hermione Granger, except you’re without vision and that’s just not fair, Stiles. I had to win something.”

“Are we competing with each other?” Stiles asks, genuinely confused. “I’m not really mad you know.”

“I know, but still, you’re showing me up when I’m… usually I’m the best shot around.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.” Stiles is. He didn’t mean to make Allison look bad and now that he is thinking about her side of things, he can see where he’d get competitive too in the face of well, the awesomeness of Stiles.

“It’s okay, but you’re going to have to honor the terms of the bet,” she adds sneakily.

“He most definitely will be,” Lydia says, certain but with a hint of laughter in her tone.

Stiles droops and flops onto the couch, all three of his sandwiches gone and filling his belly. His energy isn’t at peak levels and he’s sure the girls know this, which is why he is getting ambushed about his loss of the bet right now.

“Don’t I get some handicap here, you know, like the smaller horses in a race?”

“No. You lost fair and square and don’t ever use that god-awful word around me again,” Lydia argues. “You will wear the leotard and be grateful we only specified one day.”

“I’m not shaving my legs!” Stiles sits up in horror. “Or wearing pantyhose and heels.”

“Oh yes you are,” Lydia says, rounding on him, pushing him back down into the couch where Allison’s arms wrap around him from behind.

“Definitely. You’re going to wear the exact get-up Beyonce wears in that video if I have to come and shave your legs myself,” Allison purrs in his ear. “I’ve suffered enough humiliation being at the hurt end of your Capoeiro kicks that you owe me this at least.”

Erica snaps a photo with her phone and turns the music up obnoxiously loud. Beyonce’s voice rings out disturbingly clear and Stiles nearly face-plants into the car.

“Well you might have some of the sexiest legs on the planet but you still need to work on your form. Walking shouldn’t be so difficult after two months of lessons with me,” Lydia snottily compliments.

Stiles preens all day in the studio.

Later that night, he calls his lady contacts from the gay club that night long ago with Scott and Danny. They agree happily to escort him, especially when he tells them what he has to wear.

His dad says nothing about the entourage who picks him up and even less about the outfit he’s wearing when walking out the door, only reminding him that curfew still stands and he’ll be calling to make sure Stiles keeps to it.

Thankfully, out of earshot of his dad, one of the ladies hugs Stiles close and loudly declares, “Any time you want to wrap those legs of yours around my hips, just call,” and writes her number on Stiles’ palm. His left hand so the number won’t smear from all the sweat and booze he’ll be drowning in tonight.

Sometimes even a boy who cannot see needs a night out on the town to remember he’s got the look. 

 

_“Light thinks it travels faster than anything but it is wrong. No matter how fast light travels; it finds the darkness has always got there first and is waiting for it.” ― Terry Pratchett_

 

**(SORT OF) SEEING DEREK AT A MULTIPLE PACK MEETING AFTER SIX CONFUSING MONTHS**

Taking the long way out to Derek’s place feels like a stay of execution.

Allison parks at the new gated opening of the pebbled drive, giving them the quarter mile walk to collect themselves.

For six months, they’ve avoided pack meetings and holed up together in an effort to piece Stiles back together. Make him presentable so he doesn’t feel beyond hope around creatures, friendly creatures who look like humans mind you, but still, way out of Stiles’ league now he hasn’t a chance in hell of ever seeing them in the light of day again.

And the fact is; it’s official.

Doctor verified and Lydia proofed.

The computer printout, bumpy and readable to Stiles as well as his father’s frantically scribbled notes are shredded, along with the last vestiges of hope his dad held onto.

Stiles had not needed the empirical confirmation. He accepted this fate months ago, turning to Lydia and Allison for aid in the physical aspect of relearning the world behind eternally shuttered eyes.

Which, given Stiles’ propensity for ignoring problems until they go away, is uber-mature of him. He deserves his reprieve from pack duties.

His hair has grown in, in the back where they shaved him, drilled a hole into his skull and shunted his brain to keep Stiles from hemorrhaging. Everywhere else, it has grown out, longer than his trademark buzz cut.

Lydia says he’s finally catching up in looks and style now he’s got her and Allison as BFFs and for Stiles to trust his fingers when they snag on the softness of material Lydia dresses him in and how the clothes help. They fit him like he is meant to wear them and he can focus all his self-doubts on figuring out the unknown.

The unknown that he already knew existed before the world went black for him.

Longer hair and a fashion makeover doesn’t keep Stiles from feeling like a bulls eye is painted on the back of his cranium, that there’s a neon-red target for everything supernatural to aim at or a black spot, a signal for his friends to guilt themselves over.

He palms the healing wound softly, the hair shaved shorter back there because despite their best efforts, Allison and Lydia can’t break him of the habit of rubbing his head when he gets nervous.

“Hey. You’ll be okay,” Allison encourages, flanking him and taking his hand in hers. “We’re not going to leave you alone with the big bad wolves. Not until you’re ready.”

“BFFs forever, yeah?”

“Hell yeah.”

Stiles trips over his feet, realizing they’re halfway there and seeks out distractions. He’s not usually this trippy.

After the accident, his limbs and muscles got their act together. He’s agile and graceful like he never was when he spent all his time looking around and soaking in the sights rather than where his next footfalls would land. 

Ballet helped too.

“And what happens in the studio stays in the studio?”

Allison squeezes his hand. “You should’ve said something sooner, I’ve already sent out invites for our slumber party with you in your pink tutu on the front to entice everyone to come.”

“Cute, but seriously... do we have to talk about all the ways you helped me get back on my feet?”

“Hmmm? I guess not, as long as you’re using your powers for good.”

“I can work with that,” Stiles says, breathing much easier now even if he knows Allison is joking about the tutu photo. 

He wore a black leotard and while Stiles couldn’t see what he looked like in it, Lydia could; and her tone was laced with jealousy as she instructed him that day.

“You’d better. Although you know, Jackson and Derek could probably teach Lydia some moves on the dance floor if we’d let them. Y’know. If we let them come to the studio.”

“Do not let them hear you say that or Lydia. She’ll skin you alive and their heads are swelled enough. We don’t need to be complimenting them on their hidden ballet talents too.”

Allison’s shaking her head and tugging on Stiles to slow down. After six months of being in her company non-stop, every nuance of her muscles and movement are imprinted on him. He doesn’t need eyes to know she’s freaking out.

“What?!”

She stops before whispering, “Those unnaturally graceful douchebags probably heard me say it already. Damn werewolf hearing.”

“Oh. My. God.” Stiles mutters before raising his voice obnoxiously. “They probably did because they’re creeping like the creepers they are and listening in on our conversation.”

He raises his voice even louder, not yelling but way beyond conversational levels. “I hear you creepers! Go eat a fluffy bunny or something instead of lurking and listening in on our conversation.”

“Do you have any survival instincts, Stiles?” Allison asks, in fond exasperation. 

And oh it’s definitely fondness, especially when he butters her up with his cheesy response, “Not many, no. That’s why I treasure you and Lydia so much.”

“Well, I hate to burst your bubble but I’ve got my own personal message for one of those creeper wolves.” 

“Oh my god, seriously? Lydia’s gonna kill me. I’m not supposed to let you speak ―”

“Scott can you hear me?” Allison yells. Actually yells toward the Hale house.

“What? You’re for real? You don’t want to do this. You’re supposed to be the rational one in this relationship,” Stiles hisses. “You really don’t want to do this.”

“Oh yes I do.”

“Whatever. Okay. Do your thang, wild thang.” He slows down so they’re walking leisurely, like two friends taking an autumn stroll, and not like two crazy people baiting werewolves, alpha werewolves no less.

“You’re not invited, Scott. Do you hear me? I don’t want you stepping anywhere near my studio until you stop being a raging butthead!”

“I second that,” Stiles shouts after her. “Not the use of raging because, come on Allison, raging and butthead do not sound right paired like that, but hey… Dude. I support and respect her sentiments. You are SO NOT welcome.”

Derek glares at them from the porch. Peter behind him.

Stiles doesn’t need the sense of sight to know Peter’s smirk looks smarmy or how Derek looks strained by Alison and his declarations made on their walk up.

Allison moves closer to Stiles and that must mean Peter has come forward to greet them, leaving Derek on the porch.

“You’re a bit early.”

“Oh,” Allison’s tone does not care. “We were told to come at this time.”

“That’s my fault. I asked you here,” Derek says, slipping beside Stiles and bumping his arm against Stiles’, friendly elbow pokes to get his attention. 

It’s weird and unlike him.

“Derek! Stop. You’re freaking me out.” 

And he is.

Stiles is struggling to master his heart rate and keep the adrenaline of being here, part of pack business again from affecting him. Having Derek pressed up against him, treating him to puppy behavior and hearing the excitement in his voice, at Stiles finally being back, is too much.

“Why’d you invite us early?” Allison asks, giving Stiles a moment to breathe and pull Derek’s focus away from him.

“We’ve updated the house,” Peter drawls out.

But Derek’s got a firm grip on Stiles’ upper arm and he’s tugging, not forcefully or even in a way that makes Stiles feel dragged. It’s more of an insistent tug, one that says, _Come on, this is going to be so cool. Just wait and see._

Stiles likes being dragged along this way and follows Derek up the porch stairs without any obvious hesitation.

Allison barks out a “wait up” as Peter mentions, “We wanted to give you time to acclimate to the changes.”

Stiles stops, irritated and slowly filling with rage but unwilling to let any more of his human frailty influence his attitude today. And he’s certainly not letting Peter drive his emotions.

“Hold up. What’s your excuse for being early, Peter? Still haven’t shaken those creeper tendencies?”

Peter steps up the front porch steps and says, “You use that word a lot. I don’t think it means what you think it means.”

Derek laughs.

Allison giggles.

Stiles would goggle except his eyes don’t work that way any more.

Lust. Passion. Arousal.

They all build slow in his gut and speed up his pulse. He clamps down on the feelings immediately. Hearing Derek’s laugh, full and amused does things to Stiles he’s not thinking about on the porch with Peter and Allison with front row passes.

_Oh my god. Derek actually found something funny._

Stiles wants to ask when Derek developed a sense of humor but instead sasses back at Peter. “Oh yes it does. Look up _creeper_ in the Urban Dictionary. You’ll find definition twenty-one reads:

_Derek Hale ~ Creeper Extraordinaire ~ who is too old to hang out at high school lacrosse practices or hallways and yet he does, all the time, without drawing the attention of school supervisors and video cameras. His powers of creep are only superseded by his sassy, back from the dead uncle ~ Peter Hale._

Allison doubles over in fits of giggles when he finishes his recitation.

Dead silence follows from Derek and Peter, until Peter chokes out, “bullshit.”

Stiles shrugs, links his arm with Derek’s and pulls Allison align with him on the other side. 

“I’d like that tour now.”

 

_“Ring the bells that still can ring. Forget your perfect offering. There is a crack in everything. That's how the light gets in.” ― Leonard Cohen_

 

**A FAIRY INTERVENTION WHERE ALL OF STILES' SECRETS GET SPILLED**

Every section of the leather couch reclines. Stiles leans back and relaxes, taking in all the sounds around him in the Hale house. The tour earlier allows him to envision every room and stairway where feet pattering flow towards him, riding the air waves everywhere.

Allison plops down beside him, sending him bouncing in the air a bit and he loves how fluffy this couch is. He could sink forever into it.

She approves of it aloud. “It’s wonderful, isn’t it?”

“Such a switch from those wood chairs.”

“Yeah. Did I ever tell you my dad’s responsible for those? Had me kidnapped and tied to one as a test. Boys train to be soldiers. Girls become leaders,” she spouts some nonsense that Stiles knows Chris doesn’t live by anymore.

It’s too bad he didn’t change before he’d already damaged Allison’s psyche with his hunter games.

Stiles squeezes her hand and they both lay prone in their section of the couch, eyes on the ceiling unseeing.

A noise, one Stiles hadn’t expected to hear, comes in from the front door.

“Allison. Is your dad and CJ attending today’s meeting?”

“Huh?” Allison sits up and again Stiles thrills at the bounciness of the couch.

“He just pulled up and I heard two doors slam,” Stiles explains. “Your dad would only come here with CJ, right?”

“Stiles,” Allison’s tone goes quietly weird, almost to a hissed fervor. “Everyone’s coming up the driveway.”

“When you say everyone,” Stiles asks, sitting up abruptly, “Who all does that mean?”

“Everyone. As in Scott’s pack, which we already knew about. My dad. Three of his cronies and CJ. Your dad –”

“My dad?” croaks Stiles.

“Yeah, your dad and the goddamned fairies too,” Allison adds.

“What?!” Stiles is on his feet, yanking Allison up with him and telling her to watch her mouth. Fairies can hear just as well as werewolves and they’re easily offended.

Allison goes stiff and Stiles apologies immediately, “Please, listen to me. I don’t mean to bark but we haven’t got a lot of time. You’ve got to get my dad beside me. And can you tell me where Derek, Peter and Scott are?”

“Okay. Here we go. Peter’s beside Derek and all Derek’s betas are lined up at the door, greeting everyone. The fairies are hanging back. Oh wait. Derek nodded to them and they’re standing to the side to let Jackson and Lydia come by on the drive.”

Stiles squeezes her hand to get her to continue. “Scott’s pack is following them. They’re all coming in and can hear me telling you everything.”

“It’s okay. Where’d they go?”

They’re standing behind the couch, behind us. Scott somewhat in front with the rest of the pack behind him. His arms are folded.”

“It’s okay Allison. We’ve got this, okay? Just relax. Now move on. Where’s Lydia and Jackson.”

“We’re right next to you,” Lydia hisses. “Can’t you hear us?”

“Allison and I are having a momentary freak-out. Now that you’re here, we’ll focus better. Thank you always for your tender loving care,” Stiles says before asking where his dad is.

“I’m right here, son and have no idea what’s going on.”

“Get behind me,” Stiles commands. “I’m not sure exactly what’s happening but you will be safest behind me.”

Jackson snorts, “For real?”

Lydia pinches him and he shuts up.

“Stiles, I know that look and you do know what’s about to happen. So you tell me now so I can –” Lydia cuts off.

“Bow, slightly at the waist and lower your eyes. Heads down, all of you,” Stiles orders everyone around him.

Stiles feels his dad’s heavy hand on the center of his back, breathes deep and figures out innately when everyone around him but Lydia obeys him. _Of course, she would defy a Fairy Queen._

“Hello again Stiles,” and oh god did that just set off nearly every brain in the room. Thankfully no one speaks or calls him out on it. Yet. Lydia kicked him, indiscreetly and with malice.

He dare not take his eyes from the fairy queen even if he cannot see her manifest before his eyes without picturing her in his mind, using the last time they met as reference.

“M’lady. How are you?”

“Curious Stiles. I am curious.”

Stiles nods but keeps silent. He has learned not to use any excess of words in the presence of a fairy and especially the fairy queen if you do not want to potentially lose your tongue or worse.

“You promised me the next time we meet, I would have the opportunity to greet your Alpha. However, I am here today at the first meeting you have seen fit to attend in six months human time and find you instead cohorting with a hunter child and this vile witchling.”

“How wonderful. She can see my name too.”

“I have already explained this phenomenon to you m’lady.”

“But she would dare use it against me, unlike you.”

“Do not test me again m’lady,” and Stiles straightens tall and infuses his voice with command and promise. “You’ve been given freely, the sacrifice from me for invoking your name wrongly the first time. I will not make the same mistake twice and she is no witchling.”

“Look closer if you do not believe me.”

The queen ignores Stiles. He hears her shuffle towards Derek and the disdain in her voice when she addresses him. “To whom does Stiles belong? He cannot make up his mind. Do you know?”

“Or how about you Scott,” she speaks before Derek responds. “You claim Stiles and yet you have no idea the prize he is or the friend he has been to you all.”

And then she moves, faster than anything human and stands before Stiles again, tilting her head, bird-like and predatory. Stiles remembers her doing this from before and the pause, pregnant as she tilted her head left and right as if the angle of her view was wrong when she looked at him.

“You have them all fooled, do you not? They have no idea what you are capable of. Even now they fear for you when they should be afraid of what you might do. You will do anything to protect the ones you love.”

“I will. Yes, m’lady,” Stiles says. His words steel slicing the air and piercing through the tension she tries to heighten, to use as a weapon against those she believes inferior to herself.

“You cannot break our covenant. I have paid all debts owed by these territories as well as my own. And this visit satisfies your request to meet my alpha. You did not specify that I had to choose either Derek or Scott. You simply commanded that I make it possible for you to greet my alpha in my presence.”

“I am my own man and these people, all of these people here, are my pack. You cannot hurt them while I stand before you, so again, I request humbly that you verbally agree that I have satisfied the covenant we made.”

She knows Stiles will fight and most likely will win because she will break her own fairy commandments if she were to hurt anyone at this meeting. Technicalities on her part could be argued after this meeting comes to a close, but Stiles will worry about that then. He needs her to give her word that satisfaction has been met for the covenant.

“Curious and more curious you become, Stiles, but I will give you your satisfaction. I came here with that intent already and to offer you a guarantee of safety. Your respect for me will not go unrewarded. I am appreciative when a mage with your power observes our traditions. So this charm –” she gently takes Stiles’ hand, letting him cup it around the charm before continuing. “It provides protection to whomever you give it to wear.”

She heads for the door, her dress crinkling against the floorboards signals her departure. She turns towards them one last time and utters a warning. Stiles is already aware of this threat but she voices it aloud, among persons he has not had a chance to.

“The fairy kingdom must uphold the balance between nature and the supernatural. You would be wise to figure out why we were drawn to purge these territories.”

 

_All the darkness in the world cannot extinguish the light from a single candle. ― St. Francis of Assisi_

 

**SHIT HITS THE FAN**

Everyone talks and no one listens which really Stiles thinks is the worst problem the human race faces so it’s no surprise the supernatural realm can be added to that stupidity cycle.

A complete and utter inability to communicate and communicate effectively.

Well, except for he, Lydia and Allison. They've managed to figure out how to speak to each other without saying a thing, which works to their advantage now more than ever, being surrounded by werewolves who hear the barest of whispers. But Lydia's got his hand in hers, grabbing the charm and slapping his arm with three long raps. Behind him, Allison goes into high alert, already moving to grab her bow from the couch.

Stiles ignores his father's shout of "What the hell" when Lydia puts the fairy charm around his neck and moves unnaturally fast towards Derek's location, three long strides as Lydia recommended. He hears the swoosh, tangibly feels the air change around him and the threat it reveals.

He shoulders Derek aside just as Peter’s claws come out.

The punch he lands, makes a sickening crunch and even as Peter gurgles and heals supernaturally fast, he strikes again, using intuitive movement to know how hard and high to punch up and where to find the soft tissue of Peter’s skull. He stabs the knife under Peter’s armpit with such synchronicity of arms and fists, Peter goes down before he can take a swipe at Stiles.

The Kanima poison working just as quick on the alpha as it had on the test betas.

Lydia crows while everyone sort of startles into a deafening silence. “Knew it would be as effective on an alpha!”

Stiles topples into Derek’s arms. He smiles dopily, a bit drunk on adrenaline and alpha mojo and has no idea if Derek's looking at him when he says, “So your uncle, he’s an alpha and he’s been killing off magical creatures in the forest by leeching off their magic. It’s a rather complicated spell and not a very nice one. To be honest though, when I do it to you, it’s always by accident.”

“Like now, because for some reason my body thinks you should share your energy with me. Sorry,” Stiles aplogizes weakly.

Derek shakes his head and rights Stiles, putting distance between them, not much since his uncle rants at the top of his lungs over the injustice of his situation, but enough where there’s a definite break in their connection. Whatever link it is that binds them together.

“Quiet,” he growls at Peter, using his Alpha tone and starting in surprise when Peter says, “Really Derek. Do you even listen when Stiles speaks? That voice doesn’t work on me. Remember me? Alpha. And definitely a whole lot stronger than you.” And suddenly he's back to his sassy uncle routine and looking like the wronged party.

Stiles bends down, hoping he’s looking in Peter’s general direction and says, “Remember me? Mage. Who has been leeching your magic from you this past year. Don’t play cocky with me, Peter.”

Lydia chants loudly just as Allison shoots off three arrows sinking deep into one of Scott’s betas, who had gone for his throat. The arrows stick fast and Lydia warns the werewolf to stay down or her spell, the magicked ropes binding him will turn into iron manacles that will leave scars.

Stiles stays down and just smirks in Peter’s face, wishing he could see the angry, stunned look that must be on it right now.

“All clear,” Stiles asks and Lydia hisses, “No.”

“Do it then,” and Stiles waits, hears Lydia chant, and listens closely for the telltale signs of lying hearts. “Two there,” he points just as Derek roars.

Stiles lets Derek fight this battle out himself. Derek forces the traitors to submit quick enough. They’re bleeding next to Stiles and the blood is pooling around Stiles' feet. He tries to hear a way to step over it and can’t when Derek pulls him up and pushes him towards his dad.

“Someone want to start explaining what the hell is going on here.”

Stiles nearly cries. Count on his dad to start the interrogation. He holds onto his dad as he feels the bile come up and doubles over.

“Stiles,” Lydia’s voice cuts through the shame and guilt and he stands up, forcing his sick stomach to settle, but still clings to his dad. She is so pissed at him and he can hear it in how she said his name; but she still does him the favor of explaining.

“Fill in the blanks, if I leave out anything. Okay,” she says and starts.

Lydia explains everything, has already figured everything out from Stiles’ secret council with the fairy queen, his powers – the ability to bleed an alpha of their power –, to his sacrifice, giving up his eyesight rather than his own personal magic when he offended the queen by invoking her name aloud so that certain subjects could hear it and handing over the magic of the twin alphas he’d collected during the alpha pack battle in exchange for the fairy queen leaving their territories intact, natural and supernatural magic alike. She explains how Stiles trained and developed skills so he could still fight if needed and how he has kept them in the dark this entire time about everything he has been doing for the pack.

Which irony, because he never really did expect to have to give up his eyesight, but he has and has kept so many secrets from Scott and Derek and in turn from the pack that yeah... everyone's been in the dark about him. He can't help it though. They struggle so much from not relying on each other that it's just easier to do things on his own if he can, especially since he causes the most dissension between Scott and Derek at all times, every moment when they should be allying themselves.

Scott snarls at him, too enraged to even form words.

His dad chokes, physically chokes, asking him, "Why? Why would you think handling the fairies on your own was a good idea?" 

While Derek sighs resignedly, “Lying by omission is still lying, Stiles. How are we to trust you?”

And everyone’s looking so expectantly at him, his entire being tingling from all eyes on him and he yells because he cannot see them and he gave that up so that they all could be standing here, alive and well and because, “You all fucking don’t trust each other. You've never trusted me. The human, frail and weak is only important when you need information or a limb cut off or babysitting when you’re not up to your werewolfy-selves. Did anyone listen to me when I said Peter was a menace who needed to be dealt with even after I figured out a way to get rid of the alpha pack. I've known since that night, the night of the explosion that Peter was an alpha, but who was I going to tell. You Derek? Scott? The two of you go insane every time I show any favor to either of you. Do you know how it feels to be that person, the person who always causes the friction at every party, function and pack get together? It sucks. My life fucking sucks because I don't know how to be around some of the most important people in my life without causing a fight.”

No one responds. So typical of this group.

“Peter’s still there, right?” Stiles asks pitifully, foregoing demanding answers to his questions even though he’s given up all his secrets today.

"No Stiles. I'm on a cruise to Jamaica and didn't witness your Werewolves Anonymous moment," Peter snarks. "Next time, can I go first at circle time? We can commiserate about how Derek's an ass." 

Scott barrels over to Peter, half wolfed out, Stiles hearing him paw the ground on all fours. His eyes are probably red too.

"Shut the hell up, Peter," Scott snarls before asking, "What do we do with him?"

“I don't know,” Derek agonizes, reaching over to Stiles and squeezing his hand affectionately, apologetically but letting go when Stiles' dad pulls him away and hugs him close.

"Have any brilliant ideas, Stiles?" he asks softly.

And Stiles wants to say _fuck you, fuck you all_ because he never signed up for this. He doesn’t want to be a leader of a ragtag band of supernatural idiots and uber-intelligent humans, but he can’t because it’s his fault Scott’s here and how’s he supposed to walk away now. When he’s come to care about these people more than life itself. To consider them the family he didn’t have before they came charging into his life.

“You should take his memories, plant some new ones so he's not so hellbent on revenge and then make him submit,” Stiles says as if this is obvious. “He tried to turn your betas against you and undermined your position in the pack. He will always do that if he’s allowed to remain an alpha or omega.”

“Hey man, you want me to do it. He’s your uncle and the only family you have left. I should’ve – this way he’s in my pack and I have more reason to hate him and keep him in line," Scott offers.

“No,” Derek says with finality. “He’s my uncle and I will take responsibility for him. Thanks but no.”

“And Stiles. Thanks for a solution that hasn’t been used before.”

“No problem,” Stiles says before leaning against his dad and asking, “Am I dismissed yet?”

There are growls of dissent and fury and sadness, but ultimately no one says he can’t go. He starts for the door when familiar arms link with his on both sides and a strong, fatherly hand pushes him gently forward, centering his back.

Stiles leaves the den of werewolves with his human pack.

 

_“Happiness can be found, even in the darkest of times, if one only remembers to turn on the light.” ― Steven Kloves_

 

**THINGS GET REAL OR WHERE STILES' MIGHT GET LUCKY IN EARSHOT OF EVERYONE... EVEN HIS DAD**

Stiles always has wondered how he got so lucky to be alive when he sucks the life out of everyone around him and defeats odds that his mother never faced and yet she’s the one buried six feet under.

And this accidental living he keeps doing, doesn’t always feel like surviving. It mostly feels like he’s a freak of nature who just keeps ticking, a Frankenstein monster that defies the very essence of humanity.

It’s one hell of a warped perspective, but Stiles has been believing it too long and seen the destruction he has managed not to feel that it’s most likely true.

He has issues so sue him or force him into therapy. He’s mental and knows it.

Everyone keeps apologizing to him and he cannot stand it.

They did nothing wrong and thought nothing wrong when Derek, Scott and Stiles perpetuated every single stupid misconception because they couldn’t manage to be friends over and above their situations.

When Stiles has passed out thinking Jackson was caretaking his ass to hell, he lied. He is not a saint. He is evil and really deserving of his own special spot in hell. He cannot believe, thinking this now, that he actually allowed Jackson, someone he’s always considered beneath him in so many ways to apologize to him.

Jackson, douchebag, Whittemore had apologized to Stiles.

Stiles bangs his head against the wall and only stops when his dad hollers for him to stop and tacks on “Are you trying to concuss yourself?”

 _Great._ Now head-banging leads to guilt. His dad doesn’t need more worry and here Stiles is banging his head against the wall, not thinking at all of how his dad can hear him.

He screams into his pillow before flinging it across the room.

“That face’s familiar,” Derek says, throwing Stiles’ pillow at him, hitting him right in the kisser with it.

“What face, creeper? This one,” Stiles asks petulantly, making circular movements in front of his head. “The one you haven’t laid eyes on for a week.”

“Your face, you mean?” Derek answers with a question. “The one in front of me that looks like you're taking blame for the entire universe’s failures? Yeah, that’d be yours, right now, and it’s so lovely to see you too.”

“You suck!”

“Spoken like a true teenager,” and Derek pounces, pulling Stiles to lie down beside him.

Immediately, the connection lights up between them and this time, Stiles blushes before saying, “Sorry. Sorry. I’ve got control of it now.”

“Hmmm,” Derek purrs into Stiles neck. “What if I don’t want you to stop? Feels good.”

“And it looks like you could use some alpha mojo, what with your new obsession with guilt and pity.”

“Stiles smacks at Derek with the pillow. “Like you’re one to talk.”

“Don’t I know it. Why’d’ya think I said that face was familiar?”

“Because it was mine.”

“Multiple meanings, Stiles. Don’t play dumb with me.”

“Fine.” Stiles flips over and curls into Derek’s front, soaking in the warmth of his body and their connection. “Why’re you coming in my window rather than my front door?”

“Scott’s down there with Isaac and Erica. I came with them, but they’re here to distract your dad while we talk.”

“Man to man,” Stiles says, breaking out in a fit of giggles and Derek pulls him closer until he settles.

“I have no idea how anyone confuses you as an adult.”

“It’s shocking, I know,” Stiles giggles some more before getting serious.

“We have to stop it though. You and I. Scott. The others. We have to quit acting like martyrs and work together. I’m too old for this shit.”

“Me too,” Derek says fervently, snuffling into Stiles’ neck.

“Good,” Stiles says and scoots away, “because I’m going away.”

“Yeah. I heard. Congratulations,” Derek says, softly. His tone proud and open and Stiles doesn’t doubt he’s happy about it.

“You’re not worried?”

“No. Should I be?” Derek asks but sniffs around Stiles’ belly and his sides, pushing his arms above his head so he can scent Stiles’ armpits, arms and wrists.

Stiles keens and Derek laughs, sniffing his way back under Stiles’ chin and licking up to his earlobe. “Derek.”

“Hmmm.”

“What’re you doing?”

“Showing you how this will work.”

“What? You going to make sure I smell like you all over before you put me on the bus.”

Derek growls. “Yes. You’re not going anywhere unless you smell only of pack and me.”

“Stanford’s only about five hours away, right up the 101 North. In the Camaro, I bet it’s even less, especially how you drive.”

“Well at least that’s one bet you can count on winning,” Derek says, smiling down at Stiles evilly.

“You bastard! Erica showed you the photos, didn’t she?”

“I am her alpha, of course she did.”

“Though, Stiles, what possessed you to take that bet? You had to know with Allison’s competitive streak and with Lydia’s goading, she couldn’t let you win even if it killed her?”

“Maybe I did it for her?”

“That’s what I was afraid you say. So Stiles, I have to ask, who are you doing this for? Me? Yourself? You aren’t doing this under some misguided notion to let Scott off the hook. So he won’t feel he has to always look out for you.”

“You don’t believe that, do you?”

Stiles blanches and finds himself quickly balled up, cuddled bridal style in Derek’s lap; large but caring hands petting his head, threading through his longer hair.

“I don’t Stiles. I really don’t. You don’t ever take anything for yourself though, but I can smell you, and your feelings come through this connection sometimes, and it’s so hard not to want it when we haven’t even admitted it to each other aloud.”

Stiles shakes but he hugs Derek tight around the neck and confesses everything, “I like you, you idiot, and I don’t care neither one of us can say how long this will last or if we even want to do forever. Is it okay if I just like you for right now or is that too open-ended for consent?”

Derek leans in. “So is this where I state my intentions?”

Stiles leans in too, tugging Derek closer and hopes he’s about to get kissed when Scott’s voice cuts into the mood.

“What are your intentions, Derek, because Stiles’ dowry isn’t too shabby and I’m pretty certain his dad’s about to come up here with his shotgun.”

“Scott,” Stiles says, frustration dragging the name from him deeper than he cares to admit and Derek squeezes his ass in response. “You’re mixing metaphors and if you don’t get out of here I’m going to cut your dowry off.”

“Scott, it’s okay. I’m not going to shoot Derek yet, at least if he gets his hands off my son’s ass now.”

Derek jumps up, putting Stiles down carefully and staying close even though the Sheriff does indeed have his shotgun handy. He pumps the barrel so that Stiles hears the proof of its existence too.

“No more talk about dowries either, how large and who’s taking or giving either. I don’t want to know. Also, do not use my son’s window for visiting anymore. You will use the front door and show him the respect he deserves. I do approve of the communicating where you explicitly state what my son means to you.”

“In fact, Lydia and Allison are downstairs and wish to ask you a few questions Derek.”

“ _Oh my God._ We’re never going to have a chance to make out anytime soon, are we?”

Stiles’ dad pumps the shotgun again and Derek hurries Stiles to the door. “So not the time, Stiles.”

“Dad, ten minutes. Please?”

“Fine, ten minutes and keep the door open.”

“Like we can do anything. There are werewolves down there, with supernatural hearing. Derek’ll never let it get that far. And _holy freaking hell_ – ”

“Language Stiles,” the Sheriff mutters loudly, finally walking down the stairs giving them some privacy.

“Scott made jokes about us, you and I together,” Stiles whispers conspiratorially, jumping Derek and anchoring himself to Derek with his legs and arms. “You know what that means?”

“Blanket permission to ravish your body,” Derek says, keeping with the Victorian theme they’ve got going on between gossipy friends, an overprotective father, dead relatives (sadly) and the gaping age difference between Stiles and him.

“So how fast can you get me off? Ten minutes long enough?” Stiles asks, grinding against Derek with no warning whatsoever and pushing their lips together for the first time.

“Werewolves downstairs,” Derek tries to argue but everyone downstairs owes them this.

He and Stiles need it and he’s sorry for how disrespectful it might seem but he’s pushing Stiles up against his bedroom door before he works up a protest, letting it slam shut as Stiles’ warm tongue licks up his neck and laves his ear, teeth pulling on his earlobe until Derek bites back – not hard and with blunt human teeth, but Stiles groans and tips his head back further exposing his neck, “C’mon Derek, mark and scent me as pack. Prove we’re right for each other.”

So he does, pushing Stiles’ shirt up as he licks Stiles all over and bites watching the skin pink and purple in a colorful display of possession that he doesn’t quite know how to feel about, especially when Stiles scrabbles for his fly and says, “Hurry. I’m not going to last you idiot man.”

“Ten minutes too! Time’s a ticking.”

Derek laughs but guides Stiles’ hands out of the way, letting him sink against the door, holding him up with thrust after thrust of his hips while he pulls their shirts off and pushes their jeans down.

It isn’t elegant and it isn’t quiet. 

Stiles isn’t holding back, his groans loud and needy with each cant of his groin against Derek’s and the sparks he sends through their channeled connection sets Derek’s brain abuzz with lust, his hands wrapping greedily around Stiles’ cock, pulling faster and harder than usual until Stiles slaps his hand away.

“Too much. Hurts. Here,” and Stiles licks his fingers and palm wet and manages to fist both of them, Derek nearly dropping Stiles under the pleasure of the sensation. Stiles’ hand, large, warm and wet jerks them off at just the right tempo and they breathe into each others’ mouths, too turned on for kissing or biting now and simply let the high of contact from forehead to chest to hipbone to hipbone and cock to cock take them over the edge.


End file.
